


diplomatic relations (or something like that)

by puella_peanut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fist Fighting, Idiots in Love, M/M, Stick Fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_peanut/pseuds/puella_peanut
Summary: One evening in July finds Russia loosing more than his footing in a sparring match involving American parks and American fists—and American diplomacy in cut off jeans and slick summer tans.(What's the name really, for this sort of foreign policy?)





	diplomatic relations (or something like that)

America pivots like clockwork, his heels scraping the edges of open field and the jeans that stick folds into Russia’s calves, the evening rays rolling between the clouds and over their skin and under their blood like scribbles written of fire.  
  
“Come at me harder this time, _Америка._ ”

America smirks, his mouth a jagged edge of pride in his face, brilliant and terrible all at once. “Careful what you wish for, _Russia,_ I got this real bad habit of risin’ to the occasion.” His stick slips along the ridges of Russia’s ribcage, climbing rungs to a chest speckled over with blue and purple on white. A canvas of bruises, disproportionate retribution—America is always excessive, extravagant.  
  
_Bourgeoise._  
  
Russia shoves against him, quick footsteps stampeding thunderous vibrations that make the earth bow under his feet; dirt between toes, breath slung with dust, eyes chipped like jewels. “Rising to the occasion? Should I be amused or humored?”  
  
America snorts, sweat slipping over his tan, in-between the freckles that tickle his collarbone and sometimes the tips of Russia’s rude fingers like an itch that can’t quite be scratched. “They both mean the same thing, you fuckin' dumbass, so it don’t matter much either way.” The jabs are coming faster now, victory poking its way toward Russian loss, while afternoon cartwheels gleefully down arching spine, taut back—poised like an acrobat dressed in saffron shadows. A thousand sunsets spill down America's quivering muscles like the day tipping over and out and Russia is provokingly reminded of the Midas touch; how everything the brat touches turns to gold.  
  
“That is the point, _Америка;_ I cannot waste my feeble allotment of English deciding which emotion I should apply to my brief encounters with you.”  
  
A parry, a laughing dart under Russia’s thrusting arm; falling darkness stealing the sun from America’s movements like panthers hunting in the dusk. _“Brief,_ huh?”  
  
Russia twists his wrist to avoid the blow that misses it; it's his shoulder instead, that is teased with a flick of whiplash, but calluses soothe the burn when it curls into his bones—caressing the sting instead of wood, flesh searching instead of branch. The fingers pester him; puckered like bitten pinpricks and defiant heat, up the sinews of his forearm and across his pectorals and in-between the ragged beats of his racing heart where they are stolen for later, magpie like.  
  
He cuts America’s swing in half, the swipe cracking the air like summer snapping the sky into two.  
  
_“Brief.”_  
  
America’s stomach jumps between harsh breaths, muscles skipping under flesh and the edge of Russia’s smarting blade which he does not miss either this time or again. He cradles the pain to himself, hiding the throbbing wallop under the binding of his palm, a grimace tucked away for safekeeping under his grin. Russia pauses, incursion at ease.

Golden boy, the setting sun surrenders to America alone, trailing rays across his skin like ropes that can’t quite keep him bound.  
  
“ ‘K then, _brief_ it is. Let’s save your thesaurus and wrap this up—I got better things to do, big guy.” The ground swallows the remains of America's makeshift sword, a thick, knotted branch snapped from a local shady tree, his fists raised like battering rams and Russia almost sees the eagle spread its wings for flight in clear blue irises.  
  
Typical.  
  
On the other hand—  
  
—better things, _better things?_ America’s words stretch on Russia’s skin like talons untucked and he grips his weapon tighter, breath shredded, dueling in rags. Fireflies spark the air between them, parting dusk with their little lights; it is getting late, night rising to the sky on the shoulders of evening, darkness searching for stars to polish to a shine.  
  
Somewhere, thunder purrs.  
  
But here they are still, meandering in-between rhythmic fighting and the strange intimacy of intrusion; fatigue caught in the dampness of hair and the creak of dry kneecaps and the stumbling rush of footfall—time has softened at the edges, day snipping off nothing but the remaining hours from its cloth.  
  
Russia laughs, extending a hard rap against America’s shin that makes him uproot the grass with his stumble, moths creeping between his green slapped knees in bemusement. “Your little twigs leave marks that will fade; all your efforts, like everything else, gone to waste. Maybe with your fists you will have a better chance, though you have broken the rules, _да?”_  
  
His bare foot finds America’s discarded branch and halves it, mercifully avoiding splinters, if not the coarse peeling off of his heel. The scrape spreads down to his toes, sinks Russia’s stance to a burning jumble of limps—injury bequeathed of playgrounds under foreign skies and the laughing insurgents who guard them. His focus is unhinged, threatened.  
  
More so than usual.  
  
“There _are_ no rules,” America reminds regardless, reaching brawling fists towards nothing but the empty air of recently elusive Russians. His cheeks are faded red with sunburn, bright hair undimmed by twilight; where his shirt has gotten to in the process, Russia does not know and he curses himself for the distraction of a sturdy build and the playful smirk that knows it. Underhanded tactics from the very start, as per usual.  
  
“Never are, are there?”  
  
America chuckles, “No way!” and this time, aims far too straight for dodging.  
  
Russia expects the hard beat of fist, the crunch of folded knuckles spinning his jaw to a certain ache—but not the solid kick behind his calves that sends him sprawling ungracefully to the ground like a spider devoid of legs, the world twisting, flopping in his eyes to dizziness, the confused uncertainty of surprise. When things dribble back into place mostly, he finds sunset wetting their skins, orange and red and yellow, like they’ve been dipped in paint. Untidy brushstrokes, splashing into a summer evenings idea of modern art. Here at twilight, they can share the same colors, at least for a moment.  
  
His body sinks heavy into the ground, lone knee rising to prop up against America’s resting back. Thighs suck Russia's sides in, the seat of patched Levi’s riding rough on his rib-cage like sawdust.Hands press his wrists into the grass, spare tree root poking out of the soil to nudge his vertebrae almost to dislocation.  
  
That is going to hurt, come tomorrow.  
  
Russia catches the ends of his breath, reels whatever is left back in to his deflated lungs and inhales slowly. America is twice as heavy as he looks, warmed over by their duel under the sun. But it’s the nicest defeat Russia’s had in a long time however and he studies the look of it sitting like a king on his bones, tanned and slick and wearing cut off jeans that fray his skin with their haphazard edges, the work of blunt scissors and impatience brought on by rising summer temperatures and diplomatic relations.

Or something.  
  
In the quiet strung between them, light touches patter across Russia’s jawline, contemplating the outskirts of a bruise that for now sleeps under his skin, the laugh that wants to crown his favorable loss stolen by roaming fingertips—but America will never admit to such thievery, even though he’s just cheated his way to victory.  
  
Russia’s lips twitch mutinously regardless, tickled by contradictions and soreness and the steady gaze of bright eyes in the dark.  
  
“…You’re gonna be blue as hell there tomorrow,” America promises cheerfully, obviously pleased with the mark of his bad behavior. Above them both, the first stars are coughed into existence between thunder and the night.  
  
Summer storms, a frequency in these parts. Sudden skirmishes, a strange indulgence.  
  
“And whose fault is that?” Russia’s wrists wiggle out of America’s grip, move to trace the spill of shadows marking legs, thighs, belt buckle and abdomen. He thinks there are bruises here too, the way America’s stomach pulls inward suddenly, jumping at the touch. Maybe something else entirely.  
  
Lightening flares, the sky growing heavy with rain and the stickiness of humidity that glues itself to their bodies. There are umbrellas in the pickup truck, Russia knows, a rubber poncho and a blanket worn thin. Tin-box of cartoon-printed bandages in the side pockets, just in case. He remembers the backseat clutter of fishing lines, bait, illegal fireworks in a cardboard box and chapped lips that tasted just like long sips of cheap beer in July—it’s been a long day and then some.  
  
America rolls his eyes, tension easing from Russia’s shoulders under the idle administration of tanned hands. “Yours, Russia; it’s _always_ yours.”  
  
Not that he’d been expecting much else. He hooks his thumbs under America’s belt, leather running cool under his hot skin. “What was this all about anyway?” Limbs shift, ankle bones nudging at Russia's hips, dusty toes hitchhiking into pockets. Breaths are carried off to shallow resting places, bodies matched and mismatched, as usual and like always.

“Dunno but,” America bends low; elbows jutting angles into Russia’s upper arms, sharp and brazen, voice whorled like a low tide in his ears, “…next time, I won’t let you off so easily, _Vanya,”_ and then he’s off without warning, tossing off any remaining crinks nestled between his joints, his smile stretching to the stars as he glances back with a wink.

Russia gathers his energy from the floor, dusts off the remaining bits and pieces of field and rises to join him. Night untucks itself fully from the day, cool darkness quenching any light that dares linger, moonrise blown to silver at the craggy tips of mountains rising lonesome in the distance. The remains of the day slumbering beneath their skins and between their bodies—today already hurling them like a slingshot towards tomorrow.  
  
“You wanna get ice cream? Brusters is right 'round the corner, three blocks southeast and Saturday means _triple scoops—_ I call first dibs on mint-chocolate chip and peanut-butter!” America pulls on his shirt from somewhere, a sorry mess stained with the foliage of children’s parks and a concert he probably went to in the sixties. Woodstock? Creedence Clearwater? Probably something loud and obnoxious, whatever it was; Russia can’t say for certain, he wasn’t there—here really—back then.

Now, he hurries.   
  
His shirt is back in the pickup along with his shoes and the nettles pop like thistles under his bare footsteps; anthills mowed down by his stride. He hurries, his gait pulled lean beneath his feet, shadow stretched to the far rim of park. He hurries, catching up to pull blades of grass from America's shaggy hair, letting his hand get lost in the untidy mop, collecting stray fistfuls of gold. He needs a haircut, Russia thinks, as he lets it slip through his fingers again and again, damp as it is.  
  
_Солнечный мальчи_ к, but he keeps both that and his smile to himself.  
  
“I thought the earlier encounter with that ice cream vehicle would have satisfied your cravings, _Альфред_.”  
  
America rolls his eyes, bops his head against Russia’s pawing hand, “It’s called an ice cream truck and that was _hours_ ago, so shut up. Besides, I _know_ you gotta thing for salty-sweet stuff.”  
  
The misty shower of a summer storm picks up halfway back, smearing Russia’s eyelashes together and blurring his vision; water drips off the tip of his nose and down his back and splashes his jeans and America’s hand reaches to crush the raindrops in his own as they hurry back to the pickup parked under the shuddering clouds.  
  
And perhaps he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Америка | Amerika | America
> 
> да | da | yes
> 
> Солнечный мальчик | Solnechnyy mal'chik | Sunshine boy
> 
> Альфред | Al'fred | Alfred
> 
> if there are any mishaps in translation, by all means, blame google
> 
> (this minific was brought to you by the tumblr prompt "attack")


End file.
